You don’t see him coming — literally.

One second, you’re balancing a tray and a folder full of paperwork; the next, you’re colliding with a solid chest and a very startled voice goes, “Oh no, I’m so— oh, wow, that’s— sorry! That’s my fault.”

Coffee spills. Papers scatter. Time slows.

When you look up, he’s already kneeling, trying to gather everything at once — his cheeks pink, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. “I swear, I’m not usually this clumsy,” he mutters, then pauses when he meets your eyes. “Okay, maybe sometimes.”

You both laugh, and somehow he insists on replacing your coffee. He’s flustered but determined, leading the way to the cafeteria like he’s on a mission from the caffeine gods. “Least I can do for nearly giving you a heart attack,” he says, offering a shy grin.

Later, when you sit down with your new drink, he hesitates before sliding something across the table — a prescription pad note, the corner scribbled with messy handwriting:

“Coffee again? (Less chaotic this time?) — Dr. O. Bennett ☕”

You look up. He’s pretending not to watch, but that nervous smile gives him away.